


Redemption Process

by semantics



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Other, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Smoking, Social Issues, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 05:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20204794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semantics/pseuds/semantics
Summary: House Vilauclaire had it all, including a token bastard with a gun, pointed teeth and even pointier wit. Now the only left of his kin, Armantel struggles to find his place in a world that never accepted him to begin with. background/origin tales (?) & flashbacks/timeline jumping heavy.





	Redemption Process

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a collection of back story information for my character Armantel Vilauclaire. The relationship with Artoirel is a tag because they have a history since child hood but it is not necessarily the main focus of his life. 
> 
> Please keep in mind he is an actual horrible person and is guilty of having done/said terrible things. Future chapters will contain flashbacks/graphic depictions of violence should I get around to it.

## I. Frost

It was said that outward appearances prevailed above all else and for Armantel, this was nowhere more true than in the winding streets of Ishgard. An exile from this world of religious fervor and highborn waltzes of taste and decorum, as he set foot onto those cobblestones once more he felt his stomach retch. The dull hum of the aetheryte droned into his ears with the shrill clink of stonemasons and the temple knights doing their damnedest to get in his and everyone’s way in vain attempts to reconstruct the ‘city’. A city this may have been but it was no longer. But as always the same divide prevailed, the urchins below in the Brume screaming into the wind and lordlings shuffling past in disgust. 

It had never occurred to him to return. In his weaker moments, he found himself longing for the familiarity of his old manor - the ever stoked fire raging in the sitting room, the back breaker of a mattress on his bed that he barely slept in but was always made by the time he returned...The aroma of husky liquor and the plumes of tobacco smoke wafting from his father’s chambers assaulting is nostrils every time he grew close. That one plank, just by the threshold, that croaked when he attempted to sneak past. It had outwitted him at every turn, prompting the nasal drawl of “Armantel!” from the office. What followed was usually a lecture on behaviour or morals - something his father was an expert in of course - despite there usually being a half dressed maid under his desk.

“Master Vilauclaire,” A voice jolted him from his rose-tinted daydream. The servant remained unperturbed, better equipped for the weather in an overly generous fur coat than he was. “If you’ll follow me, mi --.” 

There was an awkward silence. Armantel’s eyes shrunk to slits as he awaited the outcome of this cock up. He was never a lordling, despite his heritage. Bastards had no need for titles. In the years since their extermination, the Vilauclaire house was no better than a swear. The only traces of them that still existed were the few drops of blood that hadn’t been caught by the servants on House Hallienarte’s floorboards. The servant’s breath billowed great plumes of white into the other’s face as his panic grew. Feeling he’d suffered just enough, Armantel examined his gloves wistfully as if nothing had ever happened. 

“Lead the way _ser_ before I become lost in this growing fog.”

“At once!”

No, the great “city” hadn’t changed one bit. She fared the same as she had the day he’d left scurrying like a wounded pup into the dark. The edges of her buildings had crumbled but the stench was the same. The bells of Holy See rang out, a crack in one of the bells adding a shrill edge to every toll. The elderly servant quickened his steps, moving further from him when he drew close. _ Oh...Don’t want to be seen with me, do you? _

“So,” He gestured with his arms outstretched, his voice booming through the frozen cobbles. The alley way they now snuck through, mostly hidden from anyone important, had the perfect acoustics for his every word. “What did wee old House Vilauclaire,” The servant visibly winced in front of him as the forbidden name fell from his lips. “Do to get an invitation from House _ Fortemps _?” Those two syllables sliced the thick air between them like a rusted blade betwixt the shoulder blades. Now in the expanse of the Last Vigil, there was an unwilling audience to their every quip. Spinning on his heel, his guide leaned in close, leaving little room between them. His face burned with scarlet fury, his teeth a flash of burnt yellow as they tore at his lips. 

“You are lucky to set foot here _ scum _,” Spittle gushed forth, dotting Armantel’s cheeks. He remained unfazed, at a full head taller than this grunt, the fact he could reach him from down below was a feat in itself. “If it weren’t for the agreement between my lord and your wretch of a father the Ward would have you in shackles as we speak.”

“I do hope they fit,” Armantel sighed, tired of their little tête-à-tête. “I do have rather delicate wrists…” He ensured his strides were broad as the familiar threshold of Fortemps Manor came into view. It had been years since he’d last set eyes upon it, even more so since anyone from within had deigned to speak to him. Imagine his surprise to receive an official summons, shoved into his hands with little ceremony, in the Druthers of all places. They were lucky he recognized their obnoxious pony of a crest otherwise he wouldn't have appeared. He could barely hold a quill yet alone read a 2 page essay in painfully elaborate script.

“Your weapon,” The guard outstretched his hand expectantly. Armantel blinked. Not even a ser? Nor a please? Outcast or no, he still had manners even if they were predominantly employed in the business of irritating others. His hands patted his jacket, delving into the small crevices and pockets, until they came across a small hard rectangle.

“Ah!” He handed over the pocket knife with a shite-eating grin, accompanied by a handful of gil. Snatching the few coins back, they both simply stared at each other in befuddlement for what seemed an age. 

“Your weapon sirrah,” His companion, a young Elezen girl of a maximum of twenty summers, gestured toward the firearm that was strapped to his back. The gun glinted in the winter sun. Though smaller than most churned out of the Manufactory, its stature was deceiving. Behind the slim shape was enough firepower to disintegrate anyone unfortunate enough to step in front of it at the wrong time. The girl was growing more impatient as the wait grew, her lips about to disappear entirely into the cavern of her mouth when Armantel finally surrendered. She gave a jump as the weight of it took her by surprise, swiftly bringing her other hand underneath to clutch it against her chest. He gave her a knowing smirk. 

“Careful, you might hurt yourself there love, ” She flung a withering glare as the manor’s doors creaked open. The scent of mulled spices and freshly stoked fires assaulted his nostrils. All very homely. All very saccharine. Once the heavy doors slammed slut behind him, the only company he had were his own thoughts. A gamble, at the best of times. Armantel wasn’t one to brood - that was what the wine was for. He was no medicine man but left to his own devices for longer than a moment would’ve been enough to drive the weakest man to despair. 

His boots made no sound as they dragged across the plush carpet, his body honing in on the heat emanating from the fireplace. The beady eyes of the various Fortemps family members stared at him from every wall, not giving him a moment to settle. They were worse than the real thing. At least Elezen blinked. A violent _ crack _ from the embers gave him a start and he bounced backwards, barely keeping his balance on his heels. 

“Tch, playing tricks on me…” Armantel noticed a great ruddy mark where he had just stood by the fire. “Halone take me…” He groaned at the realisation he’d tracked mud into the house with him. How very apt, considering most of Ishgard reviled him as less than such. A perfect impression to leave on his momentous return. 

In truth, the memories he had of this house were the best he had of his whole life in Foundation. Nothing but a young pup, barely aware of what was left and right, running through the halls with high and lowborn friends a like. Even as a teen he found himself here more often than at home. There were whispers that the only time he actually behaved and followed the strict code of manners was while under this roof. A trifle to pay in his eyes when the company was so warm. Now it was as frigid as the vigil, the high ceilings looming about him judging his every breath.

“It's not like you to jump at shadows, Armantel,” A voice made itself known from the far corner of the room. It was undeniably self-assured. He could envision the smug sneer without even turning around. “Isn’t it usually the other way around with your kin?”

Armantel’s shoulders grew heavy as he shifted to face the owner of such ‘honeyed’ words. How sweet they were, twisting the knife in his gut. Were it any other, he’d have shot them where they stood. It was a blessing his pistol was with the guard. 

“_Y__ou.” _


End file.
